


Partners In Crime

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Anonymous requested: Your version of Bim's and Dark's relationship is really cool! Could you please write something about them teaming up and using there manipulation powers on someone? Could be an Ego or a random person, both are good :)





	1. Caution

The first time Bim and Dark hold hands in front of the others, it’s walking into a meeting ten minutes late, suits crumpled, hair mussed, and eyes bright.

“Well, now that you’ve decided to join us…” Wilford started, trailing off. Everyone turned to see Dark’s hand firmly over Bim’s, the glint in his eye daring them to say anything more.   


Finally, Dr. Iplier broke the silence with a low whistle, and the Host snorted. Bim and Dark took seats next to each other, Dark’s hand on Bim’s knee. 

“Right. Er. Now that _you two_  have decided to join us,” WIlford launched into his spiel with a sideways glance at Dr. Iplier, who shook his head, smiling.   


The Host chuckled to himself, but said nothing more. 

The rest of that meeting went smoothly enough, Dark’s aura only slightly less overpowering than usual. Bim spoke up twice: each time, the room fell silent, no one daring to speak over him, not when Dark’s hand was clasped over his thigh.

The Googles filed out first, rolling their eyes at the doubtless drama to come. The Host followed, hands tucked into his pockets, smiling darkly. Dr. Iplier gave Wilford a knowing look as he went, straightening his coat. 

Wilford, leaning against the head of the table, sharpening his knife, heard Bim say, “Go on ahead, love.”

The sound of Dark’s aura receded, and Wilford looked up to find him and Bim alone in the conference room. 

“’ _Love’?”_  Wilford scoffed, examining the edge of his blade.   


Bim sighed. “You have questions.”

“The only question I have is _why_.”  


“I like him,” Bim stuttered a little, blushing. “And… he likes me.”  


“As if.”  


“Sorry?”  


Wilford stood, sheathing his knife. “Dark hasn’t liked any _thing,_  much less any _one_ , as long as he’s lived.”

“Well,” Bim said, stiffening, “he’s changed.”  


“Listen to yourself,” Wilford said, a note of concern coloring his voice. “What else has he lied to you about?”  


“Nothing.” Bim’s hands curled into fists, the cold of Dark’s touch still ghostly on his skin. “There’s no reason for you to say that, Will, you’re just–”  


“Jealous?” Wilford smirked, shrugging. “If you won’t listen to me, fine, Trimmer.”  


“He’s not–”  


“Of course not,” Wilford said, making for the door. He patted Bim’s cheek, inwardly shocked by how cool his face was to the brush of his hand. “This better not interfere with our show tomorrow.”  


Wilford stalked out, leaving Bim in the darkened conference room, shaking hands, furrowed brow.

* * *

“Dark?”  


“Yes, darling?”  


Bim flinched a little as Dark turned away from his paperwork, smiling at him, all teeth. “Are the others– are they…”

A shadow crossed Dark’s face; in an instant, he was at Bim’s knee, frowning up at him. “What did Wilford say?” he asked, teeth gritted, a dangerous flicker to his face. 

“He, um…” Bim fidgeted uncomfortably, avoiding Dark’s eye. How much of this was _real_? “He said–”  


“–that I’m lying to you,” Dark finished for him, searching his face. “That this–” he paused, bent to brush Bim’s hand with his lips, “–isn’t real.”  


Bim nodded, mute. 

Dark looked up, eyes passing hungrily over Bim’s lips to his eyes, wide with unshed tears. “Well,” he said, hushed, “is it?”

“Wh-what?”  


“Do _you_  think that all of this–” Dark took Bim’s hand in two of his, and his aura curled lovingly around them, curls of smoke brushing Bim’s shoulders, “–isn’t everything that I’ve lived for?”  


“I don’t–”  


“You do.”  


“Bim swallowed, his heart in his throat. “Wilford said– no,” he said seeing Dark about to interrupt, “let me finish– Wilford said that you haven’t loved, and you’ve never changed.” Bim’s voice grew shakier, and he curled his fingers inside Dark’s gentle grip. “I know,” he said, tapping his forehead, smiling sadly, “that it’s possible. But I also _know–”_ he tapped his chest, over his heart, and Dark’s eyes flickered in confusion, “–that this is real.”  


“And…”  


“And that’s all I need to know.”  


Dark stood, and Bim stood with him. Dark pulled him into a tight hug, and Bim let himself melt into Dark’s chest. Whatever Wilford said, this was all he needed. 

Dark chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest, and Bim drew back a little. “What’s funny?”

“Wilford is always wrong,” Dark muttered, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “Especially about me.”  


“Especially about us,” Bim said, stooping to catch his eye. He smiled as Dark looked up, reassuring.  


Dark let a smirk cross his face. “Would you like to show him _how_  wrong?” He smiled, teeth glinting, and Bim felt a pleasurable shiver go through him. Dark was like a panther at the best of times, all restraint and power. 

“Of course, love.”  


* * *

Wilford had just finished getting dressed for the day’s interview. A pink suit, white shirt, gray bowtie. His mustache perfectly curled. Suspenders taut, garter snug against the knife by his thigh. Everything was perfect. Everything was ready, so long as Bim didn’t mess up the camera work this time. 

He’d told him time and time again, the screen had to show _him_  80% of the time, and the _interviewee_ the other 20% or so. Maybe less. Bim couldn’t do anything right. 

Thinking of Bim, Wilford frowned at himself in the mirror. He should have been dressing the set, but there wasn’t a sound from outside. Straightening his bowtie, Wilford stomped outside to Bim’s door. 

“Trimmer?” he called, pounding at the door. He checked his watch: five minutes to showtime. Where _was_  he?  


Wilford knocked again, worry starting to creep into the corners of his mind. “Bim?!”

He was about to turn away when the door swung open, slow, creaky. Inviting. 

Wilford, against all better judgement, stepped inside. Bim’s tiny dressing room (really just a converted closet) was darker than it should’ve been, even windowless and damp. A chill washed over him, but Wilford stuffed it down. 

“Bim, Wilford doesn’t take any shit from you,” he yelled into the void, hearing it echo back at him. “Wilford doesn’t take any shit from… anyone…”   


The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Wilford in total darkness. He had about half a second to consider that this might have been karma before he felt, rather than saw, Dark’s aura take over. 

It was the equivalent of a vice squeezing his chest, weighing heavy on his shoulders, on his throat. He was swimming through molasses. Wilford struggled to breathe, still scowling, a spark of spite still burning in him. 

“Dark, you –” The smoke in the air choked off whatever obscenity he was about to say. All things considered, it was probably for the better. Wilford took a breath, the air heavy. He swore Dark was laughing in his ears, the world vibrating, ringing around him. 

Wilford took a step forward, swearing he saw the flash of eyes before him in the swirling darkness. The shadows were moving like the scurrying and twisting of so many bodies, writhing around him. The floor under him was the only solid thing– suddenly, it was as if Bim’s tiny room was an infinite void. Even the ground seemed to shift after a while, and Wilford staggered off balance. 

The air was suddenly sharp with the smell of rust, the taste of metal behind Wilford’s tongue. He looked down at himself, at the bright red spattered across his freshly pressed suit, at the bloody knife clenched in one hand. There was a ringing in his ears again, but something else. Someone calling his name. 

“Will–Wilford?”  


“Bim?” His heart was pounding more than it should’ve, and a hazy purple fog settled itself behind his eyes. Nothing Dark could do to him was worse than hurting Bim. Dark couldn’t hurt Bim, no–  


The darkness cleared for only a moment, a dull magenta glow, and Wilford fell to his knees. 

Bim, body limp, tiny, soft against the floor.

Bim, blood pouring from his chest. 

Bim, seeing the knife in Wilford’s hand, eyes widening in fear, starting to crawl away. 

“Bim,” Wilford was suddenly crawling closer, gruff concern, panting. “Who–”  


“No, no, no more,” Bim begged, collapsing, and Wilford looked at the knife in his hand again, and Wilford understood.   


Bim, perfect hair and glasses askew, was dying, and it was his fault. 

Wilford looked down at himself, covered in Bim’s blood. 

His fault.

And the lights flicked on, and Bim disappeared, and the blood was gone. It was all gone.

And it was his fault.

* * *

Wilford’s scream of anguish was audible outside the studio, and Dark allowed himself to giggle while Bim panted, covered in blood. Fake blood. He hoped. He hadn’t asked Dark where he’d gotten it, after all. 

“Did you see his face?” Dark straightened his suit, chuckling, a real smile lighting his eyes.   


Bim looked him over, and a grin broke out over his face. He giggled, and Dark pouted in mock suspicion. 

“What?”  


“You’re cute.”  


A bit taken aback, Dark frowned. “What?”

Bim laughed, reaching out to take Dark’s hands, spinning him. “Your smile is like the sun breaking though the clouds,” he sang, laughing. 

Dark’s breath caught in his throat. “Hmmph.”

“Hmmph,” Bim imitated, teasing. “Wonderful, love. Although,” he said, smile falling, “do you think we’re too harsh on him?”  


Dark laughed at that, ringing though the hallway. “Nothing is too _harsh_ for you, dear.”

And Bim, laughing along, let himself be swept away. Never mind Wilford catching his breath, hunched over Bim’s desk. Never mind Wilford gripping his own arms, trying to burn away the memory of Bim’s prone corpse, of the fear in his eyes. Never mind Wilford’s heart.

Bim was happy, and Dark, being Dark, was delighted. 


	2. Bad Bim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon wanted more of Bad Bim.

Everyone steps carefully around Bim these days.

Even Mark has started to notice Bim’s skin paling, the rings under his eyes, the unnatural cold to his skin. They bring it up, try to corner Bim alone, but he brushes them off with a smile and irresistible charm. 

After all, Bim is just about the happiest he’s ever been. Over the moon, even, Dark’s hand clasped protectively around his own wherever he goes. Bim’s constantly grinning ear-to-ear, exuding a kind of pale light, hiding the threadbare defeat behind his eyes. He looks for Dark in every shadow with a kind of desperation, a genuine kind of love. 

Dark is only slightly more tolerable than usual, his ringing suddenly an octave lower, aura more swirling than buzzing. He, too, grins smugly when he passes the others in the hall, as if he holds a great secret close to his chest. When he’s with Bim, the aura seems to fade away entirely, Dark’s hands almost gentle, posture almost relaxed. 

It’s not what it seems to be. 

Wilford is the only one brave enough to question it, for the most part. He keeps Bim busier than ever, working early mornings and late nights alone. He scowls at Dark in the hallways, brushing unfriendly shoulders and shooting pointed glares.

Nothing is what it seems. 

It comes to a head by accident, and Wilford regrets every second of it. 

“Bim,” Wilford called, leaning dangerously over the edge of the catwalk, “tell me whether these lights have _pizzazz_ or not.”  


“I’m not sure I can define ‘pizzazz,’ Wilford.” Bim chuckled tiredly, and Wilford heard his footsteps below.  


“Just stand over there,” Wilford leaned farther out, pointing.  


Bim looked up for him, squinting against the glare of the lights. “Wilford, be–”

“AAH!”  


Bim jumped, heart in his throat, as a _clang_  came from overhead. “W-Wilford?!”

“I’m fine,” came a shaky laugh, and Bim could see the outline of Wilford pulling himself back onto the catwalk above, shoving ropes out of his way.   


Another _clang_ , a shout, and the world went black.

* * *

Bim woke up to shouting. He blinked, everything too white, too bright. A bed in the clinic, a terrible ache in his head. There was more color in his cheeks than there’d been in weeks, but there was still weakness in his limbs. 

The arguing from outside got louder. 

“Well, when _is_  he going to wake up?!”  


“I– I don’t–”  


“ _Useless.”_  


Bim sat up quickly, too quickly, and swung his legs out of bed. The world swam before his eyes, the floor from under his feet, and he staggered.

There was a clatter outside, and Dark flung the door open, aura swarming after him like a cloud of angry insects. “Bim,” he gasped, dashing forward, all venom suddenly gone from his voice. 

Bim allowed himself to be bundled into Dark’s arms, struggling to see straight. “I’m okay,” he muttered, folding himself into Dark’s chest. This was familiar comfort, the way Dark’s chest barely rose and fell, the flicker of his heart like a butterfly’s wings. The cool circle of his arms, spun steel, holding Bim close. The gentle touch of his aura, enveloping the two of them, nearly blacking out the rest of the world, buzzing against his ears. 

Dr. Iplier limped in after Dark, clicking the door shut behind him. Bim was leaning into Dark’s chest, again pale, eyes sunken. 

Hair ruffled, moving delicately, warily, the Doctor tapped Bim on the shoulder. “Is it all right if I check you over?” he said, shooting a glance at Dark. 

Bim unfolded himself hurriedly, swaying a little on his feet. He took Dark’s hand, a deft movement, and allowed himself to be led over to sit on the edge of the bed again. “What happened?” he whispered as the Doctor checked his eyes, feeling Dark’s fingers clench against his.

Dr. Iplier sighed, snapping off his penlight. “A sandbag fell on you. No lasting damage, you’ll be fine. Get some rest, is all.” With that, he shuffled out, tired, leaving Dark and Bim alone. 

Bim turned to Dark, who’d gone rigid. “What happened, love?” he asked, nudging him.

Dark sighed, then spat: “Wilford happened. He dropped the bag.”

Bim felt a flash of hurt, white-hot. “Not– not on purpose, Will would never–”

“ _Careless_ ,” Dark muttered, the words sounding like he was in physical pain. “He doesn’t _care_  about us, Bim. He _hates_  us.”  


Bim took a second to think. Wilford was his friend. Wilford had always been his friend. Not on purpose. “But…”

“He’s not any _friend_ of ours, Bim.” Dark looked up, finally, and Bim could trick himself into seeing tears beginning to leak from his eyes. “He’s always been _jealous_ , and he’s been working you _so hard_ –” Dark choked himself off, twisting his hands into knots. His aura writhed around him, closing, as Dark bowed his head over Bim’s hand again. Anger, something deeper than anger, came off of him in waves.  


Bim took a breath, seeing Dark’s shoulders hunch in pain. 

_Dark is right_ , a reassuring voice spoke up. _Wilford hurt you. Wilford hurt him._

Bim squeezed Dark’s fingers tightly in his until he looked up, face brittle. “Don’t worry, love,” Bim said, a hard, bright smile on his face. “I’ll take care of him.”

* * *

Wilford hasn’t been seen since the accident. Dark went to find him in a fit of rage the first day, but the lock on the door and a bit of magic kept him out. The Googles go up to his room with food every day, taking away empty plates. The Doctor goes up to knock, but there’s no response from inside. As far as anyone in the office is concerned, Wilford is gone. 

Bim climbed up the stairs, head still throbbing faintly, a maniac glint in his eyes. 

“Wilford?” A triplet of knocks.  


Silence from within.

Bim tried again, sing-song. “Oh, Wiiiiiiilford? It’s Bim!”

There was shuffling, and the door was flung open. Wilford stood in wrinkled pajamas, eyes bloodshot, gun shining in his hand. “Bim?” he said, suspicion coloring his voice, gruff.

“Will!” Bim reached in for a hug, grinning.   


“You’re not… upset?” Wilford scratched at his chin uncertainly before letting Bim wrap his arms around him, stiff.   


“I know you didn’t mean to,” Bim laughed, walking into the room. A haze of gunpowder seemed to hang in the air, walls riddled with bullet holes. Bim ignored it all to sit on the edge of Wilford’s bed, still beaming.   


Wilford let the door swing shut, shuffling over. “Bim, I…”

Bim smiled up at him, and Wilford had a second to be suspicious before the aura hit him. 

“Come sit with me, Will.”  


Wilford found himself moving forward, a puppet on strings. He sat next to Bim, the bed creaking under their weight. 

Bim took his hand. “Are you doing alright?” he whispered, searching Wilford’s face. 

Wilford looked up hesitantly, into Bim’s eyes. So wide, so eager, full of hope. A younger him. He shook his head, mute.

Bim’s eyes seemed to glitter with tears, and he pulled himself closer to Wilford. “What’s wrong?”

And the words were so kind, forgiving, so full of concern, that Wilford let his shoulders sag. “I was worried,” he managed, dropping his gaze, feeling his nose start to burn. “I– I–”

Bim heard Wilford’s words catch in his throat. “Oh, no,” he murmured, scooting closer, their thighs pressed up against each other. “Wilford, I’m okay, see?”

Wilford shook his head, feeling a quiver in his chest. The gun was abandoned on the floor now, and he buried his head in his hands. “About you,” he said, muffled. “And Dark.”

Something small stirred in Bim’s chest, against his will. His aura nearly dropped. “What do you… what do you mean?”

“You’ve been so pale,” Wilford managed, now curling his hands into fists, feeling Bim press himself against him. His heart beat a little faster. “So pale. Dark is– Dark is–” He dissolved into a harsh sob, shoulders jerking. Bim put a hand on his back, cold, and Wilford had a strange sense of deja vu.   


“I’m…” Bim trailed off, swallowing doubt. His aura washed over them again, and Bim could feel the ice stiffen his spine. He was here for a reason. Never mind Wilford coming apart in front of him.   


Wilford took a breath, collecting himself. He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wish you were _you_  more, Trimmer.”

A voice that sounded a lot like Dark’s echoed in the back of Bim’s mind. _He only wants you for what you can give him_.

Bim moved to take Wilford’s hands, pressing his thumbs reassuringly into his palms. “I’m always me,” he said, a glittering smile fixed on his face again. 

Wilford looked up, and it was through a purple mist that he saw Bim smiling kindly, reaching out to him. His friend, his understudy, his _partner–_

Bim leaned in to cup Wilford’s cheek, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Wilford,” Bim whispered, leaning in, “I’m right here.”

Almost by instinct, Wilford leaned into the touch. Finally, the tension dissipated from his shoulders, the stress from his mind. Bim was here, and he was forgiven, and it was all okay. 

Wilford leaned closer, and they were nose-to-nose…

A knock at the door, and suddenly:

“Wilford?!”  


There was a ringing in the room, and Bim jumped away, leaving Wilford with puckered lips and pupils blown wide. 

Dark stood in the doorway, aura snapping at his side, a picture of rage. 

“Dark, I–” Bim stuttered, but his aura formed a firm whirlpool around Wilford, drowning him.   


Wilford sat, frozen, terrified. 

Dark roared in anger, his own tornado beginning to pick up speed, never ruffling a hair on Bim’s head. “What were you _doing?!”_

Wilford found his tongue as Bim cowered, heart suddenly beating not only for him, but for his _partner._  “Get away from him, Dark!”

Dark almost laughed, a maniacally high note. “We’ve established this, haven’t we, Will?” A flash of fangs through the smoke. “Bim is _mine_.”

“Over your dead body,” Wilford snapped, catching up his gun from the bed. Bim was… Bim was _his_. Dark was a competitor, a kidnapper, a ruiner. He lined up his shot, straight for Dark’s chest–  


Bim, behind him, snorted in laughter, and let his aura drain away. 

Wilford gasped for air as even Dark’s aura faded to nothingness, finding himself pointing a gun at Dark, standing in his boxers. 

Bim and Dark clutched each other for support, laughing, Bim’s giggle horribly wheezing. 

Wilford managed to stutter, “What?”

“You should’ve seen your _face,”_  Bim gasped, arm linked with Dark’s. “You actually thought– You thought–” he dissolved into laughter again, blinking tears from his eyes.  


Dark chuckled, darkly. “You idiot, Wilford,” he said, smoothing the front of his suit. “As if Bim would romance you, after dropping sandbags on his head, after overworking him, after all this.”

Wilford shrunk a little at the genuine bite to Dark’s voice, throwing the gun back onto the bed. “You… what?”

“Take _us_ seriously next time, Wilford,” Bim said, catching his breath. A dark tone colored his voice, a venom not unlike Dark’s own.   


“You _actually_  thought Bim could ever want someone like _you_ ,” Dark sneered, aura starting to ring again. “That he’d _forgive_ you.”  


Wilford missed the terrified glance that Bim shot at Dark, knotting his hands. “Get. Out.”

Dark still laughing, Bim reproachful, the two of them vanished. 

Wilford was alone in the wreckage of his room, gun tossed against the pillows, heart pounding in his chest, head heavy in his hands. 

What an idiot, to think he could be forgiven.

What a careless idiot. 


End file.
